


Garb

by yeaka



Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 14:36:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8450200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Henry wants his way into George’s uniform.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for “uniforms” prompt on [my bingo card](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/149673766130/fic-bingo). This isn’t historically accurate.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Murdoch Mysteries or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The nice thing about staying too long at the pub is that it gives Henry an excuse to _touch_ —he’s had his arm around George’s waist down the whole block. George stumbles just enough that it looks like Henry’s holding him up, even though it’s not really necessary. That’s just what good _friends_ do.

The second they’re inside, not just the house but George’s room, the pretense falls away. George fumbles the door closed, and Henry pushes him up against it, flattens him into the wood and sets in on his mouth. George opens up in a surprised gasp. Henry takes the invitation in, never able to resist, and moans at the taste of alcohol still clinging to George’s tongue.

There is no slow build, unless the rest of the night counts. Now that they’re alone, _finally_ able to give into this, it all explodes at once—Henry slips one hand right into George’s hair, both tugging and holding him in place, the other shoving between the door and George’s back to slide down and grab his ass. George groans into Henry’s mouth but is moving just as fast; both of his arms wrap around Henry’s middle, as though there’s any way they could be crushed together any tighter. There’s no room left. Henry bites at George’s bottom lip and strokes back his hair and wonders what happened to their hats—are they still at the stationhouse or the pub?

They’re annoying, in a way—too hot in the summer and not warm enough in the winter—but they’re part of the uniform, and that’s always one of Henry’s favourite parts: getting George out of everything. He never used to have a fetish for it. But then he saw George Crabtree step out of the changing room, done up like a proper constable, and Henry saw the merit of the design. It’s all too thick, covers too much, but that just makes it like some tantalizing present that he can’t wait to unwrap: George the prize in the middle. There are way too many buttons, but the time it takes only adds to the anticipation.

And George’s fits him like a glove. Henry starts at the collar, reluctantly leaving George’s rear and hair to pop the first button open. George isn’t so frantic with this—he doesn’t start undressing Henry, and probably won’t until they’re falling into bed, and he belatedly realizes there’s something in the way. Henry’s greedy and horny and wants to be the one that gets George _naked_ , after savouring this too.

Maybe George already wants that bed, because he tries to push Henry away from the door, but Henry slams him back, pins him harder—there’re still too many buttons. Henry wants to do this _right_. He sets in on them, one by one, their chests parted just enough to make it but their hips grinding together and their mouths sealed. George is a sloppy kisser, but Henry might not be any better, and he wouldn’t change a thing. George runs his hands up Henry’s sides to fist at his shoulders, as though trying to rip it all away at once, but these are proper _constable_ uniforms, and they can withstand a little tugging. Henry’s finally on the last button, and then he’s diving his hands in to part the jacket open. There’s a white shirt underneath, done up the same way, but it’s thinner, easier to feel through, and rarer to see. Forbidden fruit. Henry pauses and forces himself to take a step back and get a real look. George looks best like this: disheveled and half undone, with his eyes dilated and his lips wet. Before Henry goes back in, George gets the idea, and starts in on Henry’s buttons while Henry works on his.

As soon as the white shirt’s open, Henry thrusts his hands inside, slides over George’s creamy skin and moans over George’s shoulder. He nips at George’s ear, George’s jaw, and then George catches him on the mouth, and they’re at that again, while Henry takes his fill of George’s chest. He unclips the suspenders next, around the same time George gets Henry’s jacket open. Henry’s undershirt is a pullover, but he doesn’t stop long enough to deal with it. His focus is on tugging George’s belt out of the loops.

Once he’s dropped his belt to the floor, there’s only one real obstacle left. Henry diverts his next kiss to George’s mouth, then his chin, then just under that, right over his adam’s apple. George has a sharp hitch of breath as Henry kisses down his collarbone. Over his chest and along his stomach, and Henry sinks to his knees at George’s feet: the perfect height to pick at the front of George’s pants. Henry nips at the fly, only for George to tug him up by his hair. Henry listens, climbing back up to his feet. He gives George a smoldering kiss, then pulls back to ask, voice now a lust-strained rasp, “What?”

“You got the order wrong,” George quips, like there’s even such a thing. Henry lets George push Henry’s jacket off anyway, then lets George tug the undershirt over his head. It’s a little cold in the room, but they’ll warm up soon enough, and he’s hot everywhere George touches him. George generates body heat like Detective Murdoch generates inventions. Henry thinks of returning the favour, of stripping George down to just the one article he’s going to remove with his mouth, but then, Henry does so love seeing George in uniform. It might be more fun to take him with it still half on. 

He’s just about to sink down again when the telephone rings. George looks up, but Henry moves first, backing up towards its spot on the shelf. He hooks one finger into George’s belt loop to tug George with him. He’s half surprised when George lets him answer it. He plucks up the receiver in one hand and toys with George’s fallen suspenders with the other. “Hello?”

 _“Henry?”_ the voice on the other end asks, and it takes Henry a second to place it. Then he pales, mouthing to George, _Detective Murdoch._ He lets go of George immediately. _“What are you doing at Constable Crabtree’s residence?”_

Henry opens his mouth, has no words, then lies through his teeth, “Uh, helping him with his uniform, Sir. He has, um, a rip—”

 _“He can get a spare here,”_ Murdoch briskly continues. _“It’s just as well you’re there. You’re both needed at the stationhouse.”_ Then the phone clicks, disconnected, apparently so urgent that there’s no time for explanations. 

He hangs the phone up himself and gives George a withered look, sighing, “Back to work.”

George gives him a consoling smile and pecks him on the cheek. But right after that, they’re helping one another back into their uniforms, the opposite of his goal, and headed for the door, where George good-naturally suggests, “There’s always tomorrow morning.”


End file.
